But I can’t get there because I’m afraid to ride in cars, because I’m afraid I’ll be killed. “Why are you afraid to die?” Lucas yells. “You’re even more afraid to live!”
The dreams have changed. I hardly ever see Helen. They’re mostly made up of sickening sensations; I’m spinning, falling, with nothing to grab onto. No walls. No floors. Utter darkness. Dr. Shubert tells me I must say, “This is a dream. I’m waking up now.” But that usually doesn’t work. The worst times are when I think I’ve woken up but I’m still dreaming. Last night I thought I ran into the kitchen and told Mom I’d been having a nightmare, and she said, “You give me such a pain,” and walked out.
Then we were at Helen’s funeral, in a purple room full of strangers. In the middle of the service I stood up and said, “This isn’t right!” Everybody gaped at me with pale fish faces.
It wasn’t right that Helen was dead. She was not a funeral kind of person. She’d never been to one in her life. The senior class dedicated their graduation ceremony to her. We talked about having a memorial when everybody in the family was up to it.
We haven’t been up to it so far.
I think: What difference would it make? A ceremony won’t change a thing and would just make everyone sad. But remembering Helen doesn’t have to be sad. We can still be glad she was alive. It would please her to have her friends and family together; someplace pretty, like Foothill Park, with tasty refreshments and good music. Lucas could play his guitar.
It would be so Helen she would almost be there.
My mother just knocked on the door to announce that Bloomfield is downstairs and wishes to see me. Should she send him up?
“Over my dead body.”
“It would do you good to see your friends.” She tries to sound firm but her chin is quivering.
“Bloomfield is not my friend,” I say.
“He was your sister’s friend. She wouldn’t like you to treat him this way.”
“He dumped Helen when he found out she had cancer.”
Why did I say that? I am so ashamed. The words leave wounds in my mother’s eyes, but she refuses to be driven away.
“I’m sending him up.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll take off all my clothes.”
Before I finish unbuttoning my blouse, my mother has slammed out of the room. I pick up a sociology book and try not to think about Bloomfield.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, so that I may climb the golden stair! Come on, Rapunzel. We know you’re in there. We’ve got the place surrounded.”
It’s Bloomfield, on the front lawn, making an ass of himself.
I ignore him. He continues to yell. I lean out the window. He’s smiling.
I say, “How would you like a rapunzel in the mouth?”
“Sounds yummy.”
I start to shut the window.
“Hey!” he shouts. “I’ve heard of playing hard to get, but this is ridiculous. What do you want me to do, scale the house?”
“Only if you’ll promise to fall on your head.”
“I’ll do my best!” He runs into the garage and returns with a ladder, which he leans against the house. Bloomfield begins to climb toward my window.
I think: If only Helen could see this. It would make her laugh so hard.
“Look,” I say, “if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to call the police.”
“Please, allow me. Police! Police!” Bloomfield cocks an ear. “I guess they didn’t hear me.”
“I don’t know why you’re doing this, Bloomfield.”
“I missed your bubbly personality.”
“Well, I didn’t miss you. Did my mother put you up to this?”
He stopped climbing and smiled. “She said she’d give me ten bucks if I’d fall in love with her daughter.”
“You don’t love me.”
“She only had five. But I like you a lot.”
“Get out of here, Bloomfield.”
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Four feet below my window he looked up with a grin. His cap slipped off the back of his head. “Hey, you know what this reminds me of? Romeo and Juliet. ‘Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?’ Go ahead, that’s your line.”
“Drop dead.”
“No, that doesn’t come till later. Don’t you remember?” He sighed when I still didn’t smile. “Why are you making this so hard, Jessie?”
“That’s how you made it for Helen.”
He hung his head, then looked up at me. “What do you want from me? Blood, Jess? I can’t bring her back. I wish I could. Do you think hiding out here is going to help? You’re just going down the tubes.”
“That’s my problem.”
“It’s your family’s, too. Have you looked at your mother lately?”
“Thank God you’re here to save the day.”
Bloomfield shook his head. “You’re a tough nut to crack.”
The nut was cracking. Tears were gathering behind the eyes I willed dry.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” Bloomfield said. “Your mother has invited me to join you for dinner.”
“I won’t be coming to the table.”
“We’ll be eating in your room? Fabulous. That sounds so romantic!”
Bloomfield blew me a kiss and climbed down the ladder. He put it back in the garage and drove off in his car, all so swiftly that, in a matter of minutes, he began to seem like something I’d imagined.
17
May 26
There’s no telling what will come out of my mouth lately. I’m liable to say anything. Dr. Yee says the mood swings are side effects from all the medication. It makes me feel so snarly.
I mean, here’s Jessie, drooping and moaning because she’s so TIRED and she HAS A HEADACHE! Poor baby! She should see how it feels to be me for awhile. No, no, I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all my baby sister, whom I love more than life itself!!—and yet could sock in the mouth sometimes.
I am acting so crabby. I can’t stand myself! I apologized to Jess for blowing up at her when she borrowed my boots without asking. Once I started screaming, I couldn’t shut my mouth. Her eyes got wider and wider.…
I hate being pushed around by the chemo. I want to be in control. The last time I sat for Sara Rose, my eyes filled up with tears for no reason.
“What’s the matter, Helen?” She stared at me.
“Nothing,” I blubbered. “I’m just feeling kind of sad.”
“I know what you mean. “Sara Rose stroked my hair. “Sometimes I feel that way, too. But in a little while, you’ll be happy again.”
It’s true. But I’m tired of being a human Yo-Yo; up and down, up and down. I tell Dr. Yee, a hundred years from now chemo will sound as effective as applying leeches, or strapping a chicken on my body for the cancer to eat.
She agrees. In the meantime it’s all we’ve got.
I feel repulsive when I whine like this but sometimes I’m—just sorry for myself. I try to confine my complaining to these pages and convince my mother that I’m swell. Because she and Daddy go crazy when I’m sick. They can’t handle it.
The worst thing about sickness is that it makes you so selfish. It closes around you like a circle. You don’t have the energy for anything outside. All you care about is how you feel.
I don’t have time for this! I want to meet the world!
I wish I felt more like writing. I write best when I’m on fire, when there’s something I’ve GOT to say. Lately all I want to say is, “Waaaa, I’m tired!” Most of my juice goes into schoolwork. I’m determined to get good grades. After the J.C. I’m thinking of applying to U.C. Berkeley or S. F. State.
It’s a gorgeous afternoon. I would LOVE to get out of this house. I want to be up at Foothill Park but I feel too lousy to drive. Jessie and Bambi just left for the mall. Bambi’s eyes were plastered with so much goop she looked like a sex-crazed raccoon.
I should talk. I look especially lovely. Allow me to describe the
vision in the mirror: a yellow bandanna over patchy hair, skin the color of cottage cheese, chapped lips (if I smile, they bleed), flat breasts, and a fat stomach under a stretched-out sweatshirt.
I look better than this when I go to school but the overall effect is still pathetic.
I talked to Bloomfield at school today. We’ve been doing quite a bit of that recently. It’s too late for us to be anything but friends, but friends is a lot. Friends is plenty.
Jessie saw us together and walked by scowling. She looked so funny we laughed. That made her even madder. She went storming off. Bloomfield said, “I get the feeling that your sister doesn’t like me.”
“She holds a grudge,” I said. “She thinks you treated me badly.”
“She’s right,” he said. “I’m sorry, Helen. I’m sorry about everything.”
Someday Bloomfield will be a very nice man. He is positively RIFE with possibilities.
He said he’s been doing a lot of thinking and has decided that the important things in life are: knowing how to make a living, discovering your favorite thing to do (like my writing) and doing it, being considerate of and kind to others, and being able to roll with the punches.
Not to mention brushing after every meal, he added. I plan to include that in HTSYL.
We talked about graduation, which isn’t far away. Everybody worries that their parents will go overboard and do something crazy at the ceremony. Last year Jamie Bonner’s parents had a plane fly overhead, trailing a banner that read, WE LOVE YOU, JAMIE! That wouldn’t have been bad if the plane had left quickly, but it circled the field for fifteen minutes while Jamie sank lower and lower in her chair.… She never showed up at the grad night party.
Bloomfield says he just hopes that his father hasn’t been drinking or he’ll probably jump up and shout, “That’s my boy!” when Bloomfield collects his diploma. Mr. Bloomfield is an alcoholic. Bloomfield made that more clear than he ever has before. It wasn’t easy for him to talk about it.
I may be wrong, but I think Bloomfield wants to ask me to go to the grad night party with him. I got that drift today. I may be wrong, but I think he’s afraid to, because of everything that’s happened.
I may be wrong, but if he doesn’t have the nerve I’m going to let him off the hook and ask him.
18
“Everybody’s waiting, Jess,” my mother said. Leaning against the edge of my bed, her arms folded across her chest as if to warm her heart.
“I haven’t finished getting dressed,” I said. “You better go ahead and eat without me.”
I got up and opened my closet door, languidly pawing through the clothes inside.
“Everything’s going to be cold,” she said.
“That’s okay. I’m not really hungry.”
She jumped me from behind and spun me around, her face so close I smelled the wine on her breath.
“Are you crazy?” she shouted. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Dear God, what is the matter with this family?”
“Mom, let go of me. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Do you think I’m going to stand by and let another one of my babies die? I won’t! Do you hear me, Jessie?”
“Of course I hear you. You’re yelling in my ear. I’m just not hungry.”
“You must think I’m awfully dumb!”
“I don’t think you’re dumb—”
My mother let go of me and walked to the windows. She stared out into darkness until she caught her breath. “I know you’re hurting, honey. We’re all hurting. Losing Helen has just about killed me,” she said. “But I can’t lie down and die. I’ve got a family that needs me. We really need you too, Jessie. We’re sitting at the table, waiting for you—”
“Did you let Bloomfield have Helen’s chair?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not? Helen doesn’t sit there anymore.” My mother knelt beside the bed where I sat, reaching out to take my hands. “Jessie,” she crooned, “can’t you come out and play? Don’t lock yourself away in your room. Do you want to be like Mrs. Jensen, honey, living in a dream world by herself, waiting for a child who can never come back? If there is a heaven, and Helen can see us, how do you think she feels when we’re sad?”
“Oh, Ma.” I stood up. “I don’t believe in that stuff. Do you think Helen’s at a big party with Gram and Gramps, and Mrs. Jensen’s kid, and all the people who have ever died? She’s gone, Mom! You might as well face it!”
“I have, honey. Now it’s up to you.” She kissed my forehead and held me close. “People we love become part of who we are. We never really lose them.”
“I want to see Helen.” My eyes burned with unshed tears.
“Close your eyes and open your heart,” my mother murmured. She hugged me, then stepped into the hall. “I want you to join us at the table, Jessie. I’ve made some of your favorite things: spaghetti and garlic bread and cherry salad.”
I’ve never cared for cherry salad. Helen did.
“I can’t, Mom.”
“You must,” she said. “I’ll send Bloomfield up to get you.”
“If you do, I’ll take off all my clothes.”
“I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be pleased,” she said.
I slammed the door. Seconds later he knocked.
“Room service,” he announced.
“I’m completely naked.”
“Terrific!” He opened the door and barged in. “You lied to me,” he said. He was wearing a pair of those glasses with the fake mustache and eyebrows and nose.
“I see you got new glasses. Or is it Halloween?”
“Every day is Halloween around here.”
“Tell me about it! My family is so weird! Most mothers are afraid to leave their daughters alone with guys. My mother’s practically locking you in the bedroom!”
“She’s worried about you, Jess.”
“I’m worried about her!”
It was hard to stay mad. He looked ridiculous.
“Can that possibly be a smile or are you snarling at me?”
“A little of both,” I said. “You look insane.”
“You should see your father.”
“He’s wearing them, too?” I almost rushed downstairs.
Bloomfield nodded. “Your mother’s idea. She thought it would cheer you up. She practically had to hold a gun on your brother.”
I laughed, picturing Lucas in those glasses.
“Come on downstairs. They’re waiting, Jess.”
I shook my head. “They need Helen.”
“Nobody expects you to be your sister. They want Jessie back again. Where’s that famous sense of humor?”
“Things aren’t so funny anymore,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”
He braced himself. “I guess.”
“Did you ask Helen to go to the grad night party?” I hadn’t come to that part in her journal yet. I had been saving the last few pages.
“Yes,” Bloomfield said. “She was going to ask me, too.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? I blamed you for being so awful to Helen.”
“I was. That part was true,” he said. “The rest was between me and Helen.”
I sat down on my bed. I needed to think. “Go ahead,” I said. “I’ll be right down.”
“You promise?” He looked skeptical.
I crossed my heart. At that moment, I meant it. Moments ticked into minutes. I locked the door. They were downstairs, waiting. I can only be Jess. She is such a disappointment, weak and childish and petty. Everybody loved Helen best.
Especially me.
Someone tried to open my bedroom door, then pounded on it.
“Jessie,” Lucas said, “it’s me.”
“I’m not coming downstairs.”
“Open this door. Open it or I’ll break it down!”
“Leave me alone.”
“The hell I will! I’m giving you to the count of three. One … two …”
&nb
sp; “Get out of here, Lucas!”
He smashed into the door, again and again. My parents and Bloomfield thundered up the stairs.
“Lucas!” Dad shouted. “What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Opening Jessie’s door. It’s stuck.”
“She’ll come out of there when she’s ready,” Mom said.
“Don’t count on it, Ma.” The door shuddered. “At this rate, she’ll die of old age first,” Lucas said.
“Lucas, you’re upset—”
“Yes, I’m upset, Dad. That’s very perceptive. One sister’s dead and the other one’s dying. It’s making me a little touchy!”
“Your dad just—”
“Shut up, Bloomfield. I don’t even know why you’re here.”
“He’s here because Mom invited him!” I shouted. “So why don’t you shut up, Lucas?”
“Why don’t you come out and make me?”
“Lucas, please!”
“Mom, I just want to talk to her, okay? Give us a few minutes alone together. Please.”
“It’s worth a try,” I heard Bloomfield say. He and my parents went downstairs.
“It’s you and me, Jess. Open the door,” Lucas said. “Nothing bad’s going to happen. Open this door or I’ll have you for dinner.”
“You’re scaring me, Lucas.”
“I hope so.”
“Do you promise you won’t hit me?”
“When have I ever hit you?”
“That time at the park, when I was seven. You told me to quit following you—”
“Have I hit you since then?”
“No, but—”
“Open the door or I’ll start!”
I let him in. He was wearing those fake glasses. When I laughed he remembered them. He pulled them off and rubbed his face as though he were exhausted.
“Damn it to hell, Jess. Why’d you have to spoil it? Everybody’s trying so hard but you.”
“Bullshit. Who’s the voice of doom? Every time I mention Helen’s name you practically run out of the room.”
Phoenix Rising Page 9